


tired of driving 'till i see stars in my eyes

by dorothymcshane



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Hitchhiking, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 09:52:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4055617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorothymcshane/pseuds/dorothymcshane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara wants a lift to Glasgow. The Doctor wants company (even though he’d never admit it). They’re running away, they’re keeping secrets, and they’re falling for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by Soft Top Hard Shoulder, which you totally should watch if you haven’t, if only for how adorable Peter and Elaine are in it (seriously, don’t get me started on the scene where they’re fighting over who should carry the bag / the dance scene / “you make me feel everything”).

He’s barely left London when he notices her, sitting on the grass next to the highway with a sign leant against her suitcase, the crooked letters spelling out Glasgow. He doesn’t know why he stops the car. He certainly doesn’t intend to. But he does, waving halfheartedly at her, and in response, her entire face lights up like he’s offered her all of time and space.

   “Nobody hitchhikes anymore,” the Doctor says when she’s reached the car, the words falling from his lips before he’s had time to think them over. He always does that, speaks before he thinks, and he always ends up saying things he regrets, scaring everyone off.

   Not this woman, though. She just nods towards the suitcase in her hand. “Are you going to offer me a lift to Glasgow or did you just stop your car to tell me about the dangers of hitchhiking?”

   “The air conditioner doesn’t work,” the Doctor says, “so you’d probably be better off with somebody else.”

   “And miss out on the opportunity to spend seven hours listening to your complaints?” the woman says, lifting her suitcase into the backseat of the car. “Not a chance.” She walks around the car to take the seat next to the Doctor, reaching out a hand to him, which he reluctantly shakes. “Clara Oswald.”

   “The Doctor,” he says.

   “Just the Doctor?”

   He can already tell that it’s going to be a long day. “You’ve got a problem with my name?”

   “So what are you a doctor of, then?” she asks him, ignoring his question. There’s something amused in her tone.

   “None of your business,” the Doctor says, starting the car again.

   Clara tilts her head to the side. “Are you always this grumpy?”

   “Only on special occasions.”

   That earns him another smile from her, and he forces himself to focus on the road in front of them, on the suffocating heat in the car, on anything but the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles.

 

**

 

She’s quiet for about fifteen minutes, and then she opens her mouth again, stealing all of his attention.

   “So, you _are_ going to Glasgow, aren’t you?”

   For a moment, the Doctor contemplates whether he should take the opportunity to lie to her, but with his luck, they’d probably end up running into each other in the city. “Yeah.”

   “Do you live there? Or are you just visiting?”

   “Could you read the map for me?” the Doctor says. “Or anything, really, as long as it gives you something to concentrate on so that you don’t have to annoy me with all of these stupid questions.”

   “I’m just curious,” she defends herself.

   “And there’s really not much to know about me.”

   Clara raises an eyebrow. “For some reason I sincerely doubt that’s true.”

   “Grew up in Glasgow, studied medicine, moved to London, worked as a doctor for twenty-six years,” the Doctor tells her. “Happy?”

   “Very,” Clara says. “Can I open the window? I’m burning up in here.”

   “I warned you about that.”

   “I know.”

   “Fine,” the Doctor says after a short silence, “go on, open the window.”

 

**

 

“I need to pee,” Clara says when about an hour has passed, and the Doctor sighs dramatically, because he’s an arsehole who always does things like that. When they reach the next petrol station, though, he stops the car.

   He didn’t notice how short Clara was earlier, but when he’s standing next to her, it’s hard to miss. She can’t be more than five foot one, wearing a summer dress and a pair of old trainers, her dark hair in a messy bun on the top of her head.

   He absolutely and definitely doesn’t notice how gorgeous she is.

   “Should I buy you a cup of coffee?” he ends up asking her as they walk towards the station, deliberately avoiding looking at her.

   “Are you asking because you’re making an effort to be polite or are you planning to poison me?”

   “I guess you’ll just have to wait and find out.”

   “I’ll take the risk,” Clara says, pushing the door to the station open with a hip. “Milk and no sugar, please.”

   “Right,” the Doctor says, and then she disappears to the toilets, while he buys two cups of coffee, filling his own with a handful of sugar cubes, earning a disapproving look from the woman behind the counter.

   When Clara returns and he reaches her the cup with milk and no sugar, she beams at him, and he blames the thing his heart does at the sight on the heat.

   “So,” she says when they’ve settled down in the car again, “you still didn’t tell me why you’re going to Glasgow.”

   “And you didn’t tell me why you are,” he says.

   Clara laughs. “Did you just ask me a question?”

   “No, I didn’t,” he objects. “And even if I did, I don’t have any interest whatsoever in your answer, so it doesn’t count.”

   “Thou doth protest too much, methinks,” Clara says.

   “A fan of Shakespeare, are you?”

   “Another question!”

   The Doctor grimaces. “Oh, shut up.”

   “I’m an English lit teacher,” Clara says, “I’m pretty sure loving Shakespeare is part of my job description.”

   “And don’t they pay you anything?”

   “I’m not hitchhiking because I’m broke. I just ... didn’t have any money on me. And if I hadn’t given this a shot, I wouldn’t have met you, would I?”

   “You could have ended up dead in a ditch somewhere, you know,” the Doctor says.

   “I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”

   “I’m not undermining you, I ...”

   “Well, don’t,” Clara says, her tone cutting off the conversation.

 

**

 

“Why did you choose to study medicine?” Clara asks the Doctor when she finally opens her mouth again, and he feels something completely irrational that reminds him of relief. He shouldn’t want her to try to dig any information out of him, shouldn’t want her to make any conversation at all. What he should do is enjoy getting to drive in silence.

   Then again, he’s hyperaware of her presence in the car whether she’s talking or not, so she might as well talk, because at least then there’s a reason for him to have his attention focused on her, and he doesn’t have to come up with nonsensical justifications for it.

   “I wanted to save people,” he says.

   “Did you?” she asks.

   _Not the one who mattered_. “I guess. Why did you choose to study literature?”

   “I’ve always loved stories.”

   “Is that why you’re hitchhiking? So that you’ll have a story to tell?”

   Clara rolls her eyes. “Obviously.”

   “ _Why_ , then?”

   “None of your business,” she echoes his words from before.

   He regards her from the corners of his eyes for a moment before he nods, understanding her reluctance to share her secrets with him all too well.


	2. Chapter 2

When the Doctor’s car breaks down, about halfway to Glasgow, he spends five minutes cursing while Clara sits on the car bonnet with an amused expression on her face.

   “Do you actually  _want_  to get stuck in the middle of nowhere?” the Doctor asks her. He’s beginning to calm down, but his tone’s still sharp.

   “At least I realise that there’s no point in shouting at the poor car,” she says. “Face it, there’s nothing we can do other than call for help. You obviously don’t know anything about cars.”

   “And you?” he says, sinking down next to her. He can almost feel the warmth of her skin against his bare arm. “Do you know anything about cars?”

   “Never owned one,” she says.

   “I should’ve picked up another hitchhiker,” the Doctor grumbles, but when Clara nudges his foot with one of hers, he’s pretty sure they both know that he doesn’t mean it, not really.

 

**

 

“Favourite colour?”

   “Blue,” the Doctor says, nodding towards the car. They’re sitting on the grass next to it, sharing a bottle of disgustingly warm coke while they’re waiting for a tow truck and a lift to the nearest village. “Favourite drink?”

   “Tea. Favourite book?”

   “The Time Machine,” the Doctor replies without hesitation. “Yours?”

   “I don’t have a favourite novel,” Clara says, tilting her head back as she takes a swig from the bottle. “I have dozens.”

   “Then what was the first book you fell in love with?”

   She smiles. “Alice in Wonderland. Favourite song?”

   He can’t remember the name of a single song he’s ever listened to. “Why are you going to Glasgow?”

   “Sorry, I don’t know that song,” Clara says, stretching her legs out on the grass, her skin shimmering in the sunlight.

   “You know what I mean,” the Doctor says as he looks down at his feet and pretends that he wasn’t just staring at her.

   She shrugs. “Do I have to have a reason?”

   “What, you just randomly picked a city?”

   “Maybe I did,” she says. “Why do you care, anyway?”

   “I don’t,” the Doctor says, without even bothering to pretend that it isn’t a lie.

   “I chose Glasgow because it was far away and big enough to get lost in,” Clara says after a few seconds of silence, her gaze turned towards the street.

   The Doctor doesn’t ask her any more questions after that, and soon, the tow truck appears on the horizon, and the moment is over.

 

**

 

They get dropped off at a farmhouse about twenty kilometres away, with a promise of that the car should be repaired and returned to them before noon the next day. The owner of the farmhouse looks suspicious of them when he opens the door, but lets them in without asking them any questions when the Doctor reaches him a couple of banknotes.

   “You can take that room,” he says, his rural accent thick, gesturing towards a door in the end of the corridor upstairs. “I’m away for a fair tomorrow, so make yourselves breakfast, and lock the door behind you when you leave.”

   Clara regards him with something that reminds the Doctor of fascination in her eyes. “For all you know, we could be robbers.”

   “Are you?”

   They both shake their heads.

   “Well then,” he says. “And if you are, I don’t have anything worth stealing, so prepare yourselves for disappointment.”

   Clara and the Doctor exchange slightly bewildered looks with each other as soon as he’s disappeared back downstairs, leaving the two of them alone in the corridor.

   “Well,” the Doctor says, “let’s check out the room, shall we?”

   “What if he’s a murderer?” Clara says.

   “I thought this was what you wanted.  _Adventure_ ,” the Doctor says, drawing out the vowels in the word.

   “Won’t be able to have any adventures if I’m dead, will I?”

   “Take a deep breath, Oswald.”

   “Don’t tell me what to do,” she says, her gaze fixed on him, before she turns around and walks towards the room they’re supposed to share. When she reaches the door, she curses silently. “There’s only a double bed here. He must’ve thought we’re together.”

   “And why on earth would he think that?” the Doctor asks, ignoring the way her words make his heart skip a beat.

   “Well, you have to admit that it’s the logical conclusion to jump to.”

   He shakes his head. “You’re at least twenty years younger than me.”

   Clara raises an eyebrow. “What, you think I haven’t ever dated older men?”

   “I don’t know anything about you,” he says.

   “You know that my favourite drink is tea.”

   “Fair enough.”

 

**

 

“I did something stupid,” Clara says. It’s slowly getting dark outside, and they’re lying next to each other on the bed, both with all of their clothes on, staring up at the ceiling.

   The Doctor grimaces. “We all have.”

   “Something tremendously stupid,” she continues, ignoring his comment. “I didn’t mean to, at least I don’t think I did, but I panicked.”

   “You’re not a criminal, are you?” the Doctor asks her, but can’t help but think that it wouldn’t matter to him, that he’s stuck with her now, for better or for worse.

   She shakes her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “It’s just ... something happened.”

   “Something always happens,” the Doctor mumbles.

   “Yeah.” She hesitates for a moment before she opens her mouth again. "How do you know if you’re in love with someone?” she asks, and the tone in her voice is so sincere that the Doctor gets a feeling of that he isn’t meant to hear the words, that she’s simply thinking out loud.

   He rolls around to his side to regard her quietly for a few seconds before he opens his mouth again. “I think you just know.”

   Clara smiles, but there’s a sadness in her eyes. “I used to think so, too, but it’s more complicated than that, isn’t it?”

   “Not always.”

   She grabs his wrist, and it takes a moment for him to realise that she’s looking at his watch. “I was supposed to get married two hours ago.”

   She doesn’t let go of his wrist, and he doesn’t dare to move, he barely dares to breathe. “Oh.”

   “And instead I’m lying here,” she says, meeting his eyes, “thinking about how close I was to making the biggest mistake of my life.”

   The Doctor shivers, and as he drinks in the sight of her, he realises that there are a million parallel universes where they never met, and for a moment, he feels lonelier than he’s ever felt.

   “We should probably go to sleep,” Clara finally says, but she doesn’t move.

   “Yeah,” the Doctor breathes. “Probably.”

   “Do you mind if I sleep in my underwear?” she asks him. “I wouldn’t, but my only other alternative is my wedding dress, and I’m still hoping to get to wear that someday, so I’d rather not ruin it.”

   “You can borrow one of my t-shirts if you want to,” he says.

   She smiles, and this time, her eyes glitter.


	3. Chapter 3

When the Doctor wakes up the next morning, Clara’s still sleeping. There’s something fragile about her where she’s lying next to him in the bed, tangled in the sheets, her chest slowly sinking and rising. And as he allows himself to  _see_ her for the first time, he can’t escape from how breathtakingly, heartbreakingly beautiful she is anymore.

   The realisation makes the room feel tiny like a room in a dollhouse, and he doesn’t linger there, but leaves it as soon as he’s gotten dressed.

   The kitchen is bathing in the early morning sunlight from outside. The Doctor makes coffee and finds ingredients for banana pancakes in the cupboards. While he’s whisking the eggs and the butter, he turns on the radio. Some cliché pop song that he’d never admit to liking is playing, but hell, it’s catchy, and he can’t help but sway his hips, taking a few awkward steps back and forth. He doesn’t notice Clara entering the kitchen until he spins around, all caught up in the music. She’s leaning against one of the walls, a grin on her lips, and he wants to sink through the floor.

   “I wasn’t ...” he begins, stumbling all over his words.

   “I love this song,” she says, and to his relief, her tone isn’t mocking. Instead she crosses the floor, and nudges his leg with one of her hips. “Shut up and dance with me.”

   He makes an attempt at hiding the smile on his lips behind the whisk, but he knows she notices it, and if she doesn’t, the affection in his voice when he replies to her is unmistakable. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

**

 

At half past eleven, the car is repaired, returned, and they’re back on the road. Apparently, it’s the hottest day of the year, and the air’s so humid that even breathing feels like an effort.

   “You know,” Clara says, turning down the volume on the car radio, “you still haven’t told me why you’re going to Glasgow.”

   All the events of the past few days come rushing back to the Doctor, and he has to grasp the steering wheel harder to distract himself from the flashbacks.

   “No,” he finally says. “I suppose I haven’t.”

   “Are you okay?” she asks him, the worry in her tone palpable.

   He swallows. “I quit my job.”

   It isn’t much, but he thinks she understands how difficult it is for him to admit even that much to her, because she doesn’t press him for more details, she just places a hand on his knee and holds it there until his heartbeat eventually starts slowing down.

 

**

 

“I’m pretty sure I’m prepared for going to hell after this road trip,” Clara says. “It can’t possibly be warmer there than in your car, after all.”

   The Doctor makes a humming sound. “I want to crawl into a fridge and stay there until December.”

   They’re sitting on a bench on a beach somewhere in southern Scotland, sharing crumbly sandwiches and strawberry juice they’ve bought from a petrol station. The lake’s glittering in the sun, and the Doctor’s skin feels like it’s burning. He left London in a hurry, only tossing his most essential belongings into his bag, and the thought of bringing sunscreen with him didn’t even cross his mind.

   “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Clara asks him, a corner of her mouth curved upwards as she focuses her gaze on him.

   There’s something so intense about the eye contact that he almost shivers. “Possibly.”

   “Well, then,” Clara says, and then she’s up on her feet, pulling her dress over her head.

   The Doctor raises an eyebrow. “You really couldn’t have kept that on?”

   She just grins. “Why, am I distracting you?”

   “Don’t be ridiculous.”

   “I am, aren’t I?”

   He forces himself to unbutton his shirt to divert his attention from her. “You’re impossible, has anyone ever told you that?”

   “All the time,” she shouts over her shoulder from where she’s already crossed half the beach.

   The Doctor sighs as he rises from the bench, peels off his trousers and follows her down to the water. He tries to tell himself that at least there aren’t any other people around, but to be perfectly honest, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t even notice if there were.

   “Come on,” Clara says, splashing water on the Doctor where he’s standing at the edge of the lake. “The water’s lovely.”

   He leans forwards down into the water and lets it envelop him. The sun has warmed it up, but they’re still in Scotland, after all, so it’s cool enough to provide an escape from the insufferable heat on land.

   When he reaches the surface of the water again, Clara’s right next to him. She looks luminous in the sunlight, drops of water sticking to her skin.

   “There’s something about you,” she says, brushing a hand over one of his cheeks. The false cheerfulness in her voice is gone, and her eyes are dark.

   The Doctor wonders what would happen if he closed the last distance between the two of them. He wonders if her lips are as soft as they look. He wonders if she’d taste like strawberries.

   In a parallel universe, he’s brave enough to kiss her.

 

**

 

“What happens now?” Clara asks the Doctor. He’s lifted out her suitcase from the car, and they’re standing outside of it, glancing between each other and the asphalt.

   “I have no idea,” he admits.

   “We could say goodbye,” Clara says. “Never have to see each other again.”

   “We could,” the Doctor says, thinking about how that was what his past self thought he wanted, thinking about how the thought of losing her now feels like losing a kidney, or a heart, or something like that.

   “I’d miss you,” she says, fumbling with the handle of her suitcase, and there’s something so sincere about the way she avoids looking at him as she utters the words that he believes her.

   “Do you ... do you want to go and get some coffee?” he asks her, the words falling from his lips before he’s had time to think them over, but for once, he doesn’t regret what he’s just said. “Or chips. Or something. Or chips and coffee?”

   Clara bites her lip, and for a second, he thinks he’s misread the situation, but then she smiles. “It’s a start.”


End file.
